Lessons from the Forge
by queenofowls
Summary: Son of a blacksmith, Dedue Molinaro is twelve years old when he first begins training to follow in the footsteps of his father. For months he's learned the tools of the trade, and he is certain he is ready to make his first piece. His father is just as certain, however, that there is a lesson he needs to learn first. [Set before the Tragedy of Duscur.]


**Set before the Tragedy of Duscur, when Dedue was twelve years old.**

**/Written for Dedue Week | Day 1 Prompt: Shield/**

* * *

"Dedue, that's disgusting! Can you please chew?" He pauses, looks his sister in the eye, and manages one word around the partially chewed scrambled egg in his mouth.

"No." Dedue continues shoveling his breakfast into his mouth, trying to cram the food in as quickly as possible so that he can be out of the door and into the smithy for another day of his apprenticeship.

"Mother!"

"Let your brother alone, Chiara. You'll understand once you start your training to become a blacksmith as well." Renata looks up from her space on the floor, feeding the youngest three of her nieces. "Your father told me that today you'll be at the helm. I'm sure you're very excited, Dedue." He manages a nod as Chiara sniffs indignantly.

"I'll never be that gross, thank you very much." He ignores her, but in reality, he doesn't have to bother retorting. Linza does it for him, her expression crumpling.

"Y-you say that but last night, you rinsed the dishes in the river w-without using soap so you could get back to the house to take the first bath." Dedue grimaces, but doesn't stop his pace. As long as he doesn't think about it, he should be fine-

_"Blegh!"_

The sound of Taran throwing up her food makes him wince as the little girl bursts into tears. "It'll be alright, Taran." His mother turns from the toddlers to remove the soiled clothing with quick hands. Renata turns to glare at her daughter with sharp eyes. "Chiara Molinaro. You did _what?"_ Chiara smiles guiltily.

"They're clean... clean enough!" She shrinks back, inching close to Dedue. "Duey, I should walk you to the smithy, shouldn't I?" She moves to stand before her mother's hand clamps down on her shoulder. "I'm sure Father is hungry enough to eat a second breakfa-"

"Oh, _no_ you don't. _You_, Miss, have dishes to clean. Linza, take Taran to the river and get her cleaned up. Dedue-" But he is out the door before she can finish the sentence, brushing the last bits of his breakfast crumbs from his lips as he heads towards the smithy before his mother can instruct him to do something.

When he enters the smithy, the first thing he feels is the wave of heat, breezing across his skin. He feels as though he is entering the mouth of a great dragon, his heart steadily thrumming in sync with the quiet clinking of his father's hammer and chisel against steel. He carves out his mark into the surface with such a stable touch that Dedue almost doesn't want to interrupt him, content with watching. Each letter appears along the base of the blade, tap by tap.

_...O-L-T-A..._

Almost. In spite of himself, Dedue interrupts his father's work, his anticipation getting the best of him.

"Father, I've arrived." The stout man pauses to look up at his son, smiling vaguely before continuing. He speaks over the gentle taps of his hammer.

"Earlier than expected. Renata didn't keep you?" Dedue grimaces. At the sight of the expression, Redus chuckles to himself. Every time he sees that look on his only son's face, he thinks that his wife must've stamped the pattern on at birth. He looks so much like her that he can't help but feel amused. "Not for lack of trying, then."

Dedue doesn't respond. Instead, he watches his father work, mesmerized by the confidence in his hands as he crafts. He wonders when he will be given the tools to make swords himself. Pulling on the gloves meant to protect him, Dedue edges closer to his father's workbench.

"Can I help?"

Redue pauses, then places his tools aside. "There's a piece I need to finish in eight days time... Do you remember how to stoke the furnace?" Dedue nods once in affirmation, but does not move from the space. A smile quirks onto the corner of his father's lips. "Then get your apron." Dedue scrambles for a moment, equipping the too large apron and protective layers of a blacksmith's apprentice. As soon as he is ready, he takes his position at the bellows, blowing air into the furnace to increase the heat.

Soon enough, he can hear heavy duty clanks as his father works, the sound vibrating up his spine with its resolute blows. He looks over his shoulder to ask if the furnace is hot enough and finds himself captivated.

The color of flame flickers in his father's crisp green eyes as he hammers steadily, molding the metal with even steady strokes. Dedue stares up at the blacksmith trying not to be filled with wonder, but failing.

Miserably, miserably failing.

The broad-shouldered man glances up, a warm smile on his lips.

"My son... if you do not keep the bellows going, all of this hammering will be for naught." Dedue flushes slightly, returning to the work that his father has assigned him. It hasn't been long since he's been allowed into the smithy, and the place still feels him with wonder. His entire childhood, he's been told that it was too dangerous to come inside, and now...

Now, he thinks, as the sweat drips down his back, he's ready.

He works to stoke the flames, the rhythm of the air sighed into the furnace like a gasping song. It's a different flame from the one that he is used to, the flame that is his friend, accompanied by the savory smell of grilled, salted meats and herbs and spices.

This fire smells like metal and burning and there is something about it that demands respect. He is ready to learn from this master. He calls out to his father.

"It's hot enough?"

Droplets of sweat bead on Redus' forehead as if in answer to the question. He knows what his son is truly asking and glances up to nod reassuringly. "You're doing well, Dedue. Just keep steady." At the encouragement, Dedue presses his weight into the bellow. _Up, down, up, down..._ He pumps the machinery until his elbows feel numb.

Glancing over at the hardworking man once more, he cannot help but compare. Already, he is taller than the man to his mother's amusement. As much as Dedue takes after her in facial expression, it amuses her to no end that her son will take after her in size as well. The physical labor of his apprenticeship is already starting to make his muscles ache less and less, but... he can't help but wonder, though... will his shoulders ever be as broad as his father's are?

And more importantly, how long will he have to wait before he is allowed to do more than heat and shovel coal, polish swords, deliver them to the merchant's guild and other tasks related to, but not exactly doing what he is training to do? In other words, Dedue wonders when he too will be able to work at his father's forge.

The blacksmith stops, taking a moment to roll his shoulders. "Take a moment, Dedue. Are you thirsty?"

The boy nods, dropping his arms gratefully. Redus pours the water, then hands his son a metal cup to drink from. "I'm proud of you." Dedue looks up at him in surprise, but says nothing. He was always a quiet boy, his father thinks as he expands on his thought. "You're getting stronger. Before you wouldn't have been able to man the bellows for nearly as long." Dedue drops his gaze into the cup. "Something on your mind?"

"...Yes?" He answers quickly but with uncertainty. Draining the water, Dedue holds out the cup again for his father to fill. "When will I get to help with..." He gestures towards pieces in disrepair, queued for fixing before returning to the merchants. "Creating things as you do?"

Redus chuckles. "Ready to take the mantle of Zoltan, are you?" At the mention of the famous sword maker's name, Dedue drops his gaze again. He knows he is being teased. As his father's father, and his father's father's mother before him, "Zoltan" is a title that would only be passed down if-when-he becomes a master swordsmith. As is, he couldn't forge as much as a dagger so...

He stares at his father, waiting for a real answer. Redus reaches out to gently strokes his son's hair. As his hand comes to a stop, he rests his palm on top of the boy's head before reluctantly pulling it away, Dedue's furrowed eyebrows giving his feelings away. He knows the boy is getting at the age where he is too old for such affection, but... his father lets his eyes linger proudly on his face.

Then, he shakes his head. "Not ready yet for weapons yet."

Dedue's brows practically touch before he tilts his head thoughtfully. "I thought today was to be my first day at the helm."

Redus smiles in reply. "Oh, yes, my son. But before you can learn to make a weapon, you must learn to make its most important counterpart."

Dedue's eyes widen. "Armor?"

"In part. Take a look in that chest there." He inclines his head towards the corner of the room and Dedue pulls off his gloves, stepping over a pile of weapons in disrepair to open a chest in the corner and wondering what it will be. Something decorative and exciting, like a helm? Or perhaps something more complex, like gauntlets? He opens it in anticipation.

From inside, shining up at him, there lies...

"A... shield?" He looks up at his father seriously, pulling out the large disc. Redus nods. "Before you can learn to make the weapons the will end a soldier's life, you should learn to make the things that can save it. A shield is one of the most important items a soldier can have." Dedue pauses thoughtfully. "It can be the difference between life and death, my son."

Redus cannot help himself. He reaches out and strokes his child's hair again with light fingers. He prays there will never be a day where his own son knows the lesson personally. Imagining the stoic child on the front of a battlefield, facing death... he thinks on his wife, on the scars that touch her skin. Before Dedue's birth, they have discussed many times in the night what they wished their children to be, and... he looks at the boy before him feeling strangely emotional.

"Father?"

Redus lets out a breath, the imaginings of his teenage son going to war twisting his stomach into knots. He can only hope that the situation in Faerghus improves.

"Look at the inscription on the inside, near the bottom. What do you read there?"

Dutifully, Dedue flips the disc over, eyes searching for the words. He notes a single signature carved in the surface with a deceptively easy flourish.

_'Zoltan.'_

Looking up at his father in confusion, he says the word aloud, the follows it with the title. "You made this? But... it's not a sword."

Redus shakes his head. "This one is made by the original Zoltan." Dedue's eyes widen.

"You mean...?"

"Your great-grandmother, yes. Lisette Zoltan. Many people know of the name for the famed style of swords, but what most do _not_ know is that the famous swordsmith's start was not in swords at all-but in shields. Do you know why she began with these first?" Dedue shakes his head slowly. Touching his chin lightly, the blacksmith gathers his elbow with his opposite hand. "Dedue. I have told you this many times but... what does it mean to be of Duscur?"

Breezily, Dedue recites the words impressed upon him since childhood. "The people of Duscur protect the weak in their care." Redus nods.

"Your grandmother understood this truth better than anyone, my son. As blacksmiths, we are in a prime position to provide our people with what is needed to follow that adage. A shield can protect, yes, but it can also preserve alive. A sword is meant to kill, to take life and cut away, but a shield, my son..." He takes the shield from his son's smaller hands. "A shield can take the blows that nothing else can withstand. It can save its wielders life." Strapping it on his arm, he holds it up.

The emblem of a bear-the Duscur bear, emblem of their nation-shines up at him, paws up and ready to defend, its large maw open in a silent roar.

Dedue stares at it in silence.

"I understand, Father." Smiling, Redus puts the piece aside.

"Good. Then already you have taken your first step to becoming Zoltan." He places it back into the chest. "Let us begin." Dedue turns towards the bellows, but his father stops him with a light hand on his shoulder, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "What is a shield without material?" Dedue blinks, freezing in place. "You need the right ore. If a shield isn't strong, it is of no use to its wielder." Dedue nods steadily.

"I won't disappoint you, Father. The shield will be flawless." Redus nods idly. He cannot imagine being disappointed by whatever his son's creation will reveal. He pats the boy on the shoulder and puts the legendary Zoltan's shield away.

* * *

**A big thank you to MartritzC on Twitter ****for the idea about 'Zoltan' being the alias of a line of famous blacksmiths based off the real life Ulfberht swords, ****as well as a thank you to saltymcjustice (also on Twitter)**** for the idea that "Zoltan" was Dedue's father, bouncing off my original HC that the famous swordsmith that Felix/Dimitri fanboy over was originally from Duscur and the reason his pieces are so rare is because he died in the Tragedy.**


End file.
